Monday, January 9, 2012

Like I said.

I've tried telling Joey a bazillion times that I will not ever, under any circumstances, go camping. He tries to guilt me into warming to the idea, saying really stupid things like, "But Alex needs these life experiences!" or "It's a rite of passage for any young man!"

Joey's idea of "camping" is the real McCoy. Tents for sleeping. Holes in the ground for the loo. Food over flames for consuming. Showering in open bodies of water. You picking up what I'm throwing down?

I've been "real" camping two times in my life. Both of which are experiences I would like to forget to ensure my therapy costs can remain affordable. My Mom is about as outdoorsy as Kris Jenner (although she strangely does love to kayak) and my Dad couldn't pitch a tent if it came with Yogi Bear himself as an instructor. (And no, that's not a euphemism. Sickos.) To say we're not the camping type of family is the understatement of the century. And I'm perfectly fine with that.

Our skills lie in other areas of life, like making reservations for dinner and ensuring the hotel we're staying in has a pool. These are the things that are the true test of a rugged woman. Alex and Joey can go camping all they want in life, as long as they don't expect me to tag along. Instead, you can find me at the nearest indoor facility with air conditioning and snacks.

In summary: I might consider camping if somone buys me this glass. And I was kidding about the therapy. Maybe.